


Signs

by Otoshigo



Series: USUK - Oneshots [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble, M/M, USUK - Freeform, england is definitely a spy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otoshigo/pseuds/Otoshigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England takes up the study of micro-expressions. USUK. Drabble</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signs

**Author's Note:**

> There is zero editing on this. Zero. So I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

England likes it best when America doesn’t talk.

Talking is... _distracting._

Now stop that.  Your mind’s going to the gutter.

What he should say is that, a silent America just has so much more to say.  If one cared to pay attention.  And America had just about _all_ of his attention.  England has made an intense study of all of America’s micro expressions, those nuanced flashes revealing a far more complex character underneath that loud and obnoxious facade.  One that tends to keep England from seeing what’s going on underneath, as the boy’s a professional at getting under his skin with his jabs and teasing.  As he said, distracting.

He often wonders if it’s on purpose.  Some front that America keeps up just to make it all the more difficult for anyone to see just how much he feels.  Like a defense mechanism.  A shield, to keep anyone from seeing if he’s ever hurt.

He often wonders if it’s his fault.  Was this something that America picked up from him?  Only instead of anger, America uses the far more subtle emotion of joy - if one can call that subtle - to hide his true self.

Again, he’s made an intense study of this.

He also often wonders if he’s just reading far too much into it.  Until he catches America off-guard, watching him when the boy thinks no one is looking.  Like the other day during the conference when they’re listening to France’s speech about ‘ _making love not war_ ’ or some such bullocks.  Then England caught the flicker of anger around America’s eyes.  Immediately followed by a sideways flash of guilt.  Deep thoughts, that one.  But about what?  For all that England can read his emotions, the boy’s mind is still a mystery.

England finds it absolutely fascinating.

To the point that one might call it unhealthily obsessive.  That is, if anyone ever found out about the little surveillance camera in England’s jacket button, _which no one ever would._   It’s not even for anything malicious.  He just wants to record their conversations, play it back on mute.  See what’s going on without his own invested emotions getting in the way.  He can admit he does have a little bit of a temper.  Just a smidge.

It’s his first day using it.  Well, second.  He accidentally erased the first day.  _Sigh._

No matter.  He has his _first_ day playing on the laptop in his hotel room.  The hotel television blares mindlessly in the background, not that England is paying any attention to it whatsoever.  He’s gone over a few hours of video already, gaining as much insight as he can into his enigmatic former colony.  He smiles to himself, watching America flash with annoyance at Spain’s true obliviousness, even as he affected the same facade.  The genuine excitement bubble as he tried to play it cool while asking about video games with Japan.  The flicker of dread as he felt Russia loom over his shoulder.  So much for that bravado.  Was that admiration as well?  Interesting...

Then England’s mood immediately sours as they come up on the absolutely pointless argument that America had started with him.  About _biscuits_ of all things.  He pauses the video, debating if he really wants to get riled all over again.  Even the memory of it was making his hackles rise.  But, no, this was why he got the camera.

Steeling himself, he continues the video keeping it on mute.  He watches America bounce over towards him, then begins gesticulating wildly in that way that he does.  England relaxes.  This isn’t quite so bad.  Although he does keep a keen eye on America’s face, trying to determine if there’s anything dark going on as he intentionally goads England.  But no, there’s nothing like that.  There doesn’t seem to be much of anything going on.  How disappoint-

England freezes.  He winds back the video.  There, that semi-automatic gesture.  Just a brief brush of his thumb over his lips.  America doesn’t seem to know what he’d just done.  Hell, how had England never noticed what he’d done either?  But that couldn’t be...

Absently touching his own lips, England wheels the video back to the beginning of the argument.  He’s not about to let himself fall for wishful thinking after all.  He watches even more closely than ever, trying to pick out signs, definitive proof.  Had Alfred’s eyes always been that dilated?  Had he always been so puffed up?

England watches the tape for hours, focusing on the argument before speeding over to other segments of the day, trying to catch more subconscious gestures.  He studies America’s face so carefully, he might very well be able to sculpt his bust from touch alone. 

At that point, when his head is spinning, England decides sleeping on it is the best remedy.  At 4:31 AM, he lays his head down to catch some scant precious minutes of rest before he has to face America again.

~o~

America yawns widely, still waiting for his black cuppa joe to kick in.  Not that anyone will notice.  He’s good at the false cheerfulness and enthusiasm.  A bit too good.  He hasn’t had a sympathetic word in years.  Because he’s always, _always_ awesome.  Perfectly awesome.  Even if right now all he wants to do is curl up on top of the table and sleep.  Late-night anxiety had kept him up again, his mind whirling at a million miles a minute over all the problems he never tells anyone about.

Honestly, sometimes he thinks the only thing keeping him sane is a certain scruffy blond. 

Where _is_ England anyway?  He’s not usually late.  Finally, he catches sight of that choppy hair and straightens up in his seat, ready to wave him over.  England catches his eye - those beautiful big green eyes.  Then suddenly turns away and takes a seat on the opposite side of the room, facing him. 

Wait.  What?

Only practice and habit keeps the smile from falling from his face.  What was England doing all the way over there?  Did he do something wrong?  Was England really just _that_ serious about his biscuits?

No one else seems to notice his plight, although they _do_ notice the snub.  “Ohohohon~ It looks zat someone iz in ze doghouse, non?” France quips unhelpfully from nearby as he gathers up his things to go to England’s end of the room.  Clearly he’d been expecting England to sit nearby America as well.  Those two always sit close to each other, bickering like old ninnies.

America squashes the ugly tendril of jealousy with a bright smile.  “Um, sorry, what’re you talking about?” he asks, all innocence and confusion.  France merely rolls his eyes, muttering something he thinks America can’t understand under his breath.  He struts over to the other end of the conference room, drawing America’s eyes inevitably back to England.

He nearly jumps when he sees England watching him intently, his expression unreadable.  Sure, he’d caught England watching him a couple times, but it’s only all the more obvious when the older nation is facing towards him.  Startled in his own right, England looks away and then begins to bicker with France.

The hell is going on?

Several more times during the meeting, America tries to catch England’s eye.  However, the nation seems intent on completely ignoring him.  Or at least pretending to.  America can’t shake the feeling for the entire morning that he’s being studied like a bug.  Especially, when he catches England’s hand move in mimicry of his own reflexive gestures.  It only solidifies the self-conscious bulb growing in the pit of his stomach.

By lunch, America’s had enough of it.  Even before everyone gets up to head to their lunch plans, he bounds over to England’s side of the room to corner the older nation.  “England!  Come eat lunch with me!” he chirps excitedly, dreading the inevitable scowl and tongue lashing about his food choices.  He’s already armed himself with a silo of teases and arguments, ready to fight England into coming with him.

“Alright,” England replies.  “Where to?”

...Okay, he wasn’t expecting that.  So, he wasn’t in trouble?  Or was he?  Shit, was England replying so easily because he wanted to tell America some terrible news?

His easy smile in place, hiding his sudden bout of feverish paranoia, he grabs England by the arm.  “C’mon, I think I thought I saw a Mickey-D’s nearby.”

Finally, the older nation scoffs.  “You think you thought?  Dear boy, try to be more precise in your English.”

“S’not English, it’s American, old man,” America replies back automatically.  Okay, so this was normal.  This was _safe_.  He hears another snort and his smile broadens.  They head out past security to the east side of the building, out into New York’s bustling streets.  The scene is usually enough to keep America’s attention, but for some reason all this thoughts are stuck on England’s silent figure.  When was the last time that England had so easily agreed to a lunch date with him?

One of those two words strikes a chord in him, lingering and making his insides flustered and nervy.  Somehow, suddenly, McDonald’s seems inadequate.  “Hey, Arthur, how about this place?” he asks, making a split-decision to stop in front of an Irish pub called _Sully’s._  

England gives him a bland look.  “I thought you wanted McDonald’s,” he says flatly.

“No, too hungry to walk over there,” America lies, shoving his hands into his pockets.  “So, is this okay?”

The other nation releases a sigh.  “It will do,” he replies, following the giddy younger nation up the steps into the dark room.

It is everything that America expected.  Dark wooden panels, the smell of whiskey and fries, long rows of glasses and beer taps, the low soundtrack of punk in the background.  They get a cozy booth right next to the cross hatched stained glass windows and order bitters and coke respectively.  Despite England’s reservations about going to an Irish pub, he looks right at home here.  Far more than he would have in the chrome and bright colors of a Mickey D’s dining hall.

He looks significantly more at home on his second bitters.  America grins at him, not caring that England is getting just a little bit tipsy.  It’s so easy to talk about everything and nothing.  And giggle simultaneously as they order the same thing (fish n’ chips).  And ignore the weird looks from the waiter as they argue about ketchup vs. malt vinegar.  The laughter and the smiles come so easy when he’s with England.

Checking his watch, America sees they’re already late for the afternoon session.  However, England doesn’t seem to notice, so he doesn’t clue him in.  He wants to ride this out for as long as possible. “I didn’t realize this place was so close to our building.  I haven’t seen it before,” he says instead as their plates get taken away and their water refreshed.  “Do you like it here?” he asks, wondering if they can make this a weekly thing.

Suddenly, England reaches out and touches the back of his hand.  The touch is like a warm electric current shooting right through him and America instantly forgets what he was saying.  “You keep touching your lips,” the older nation informs him wryly.

“Huh?” America replies stupidly, drawing his hand away from his mouth.  He hadn’t even noticed he was doing that. 

“Cor, I don’t even know why I didn’t _see it_ before now,” England says, going off on some random tangent in his own head, as he was wont to do.  “It’s all over your _face_.”

“ _What’s_ all over my face?” America demands, now purposefully sliding his hands over his cheeks as his vanity goes into a full-blown panic attack.

“Oh you silly boy.  _This,_ ” is all the warning he gets before England presses a hard kiss to his lips.

America is as confused as ever.  But right now, he really doesn’t give a damn when suddenly the delicate membrane around his subconscious desires pops like an overfilled balloon.  He’s wanted this for so long.  He’s _always_ wanted this.  Moaning, he pants softly as he grabs England’s sleeve and tugs him over to the back of the pub.  Soon he’s got the lithe nation up against the wall in the private bathroom, hands all over each other as they fight for dominance in their kisses.

They never actually did make it back to the meetings.

~o~

“England!  Hey England!”

The older nation looks up from his toiletry kit, frowning at the alarm he hears in his new boyfriend’s voice.  In the past couple of days, America’s moved from his own room to England’s.  Now that the meetings are over this quarter, they plan on taking a much needed break together to sort out this new, intimidating and wonderful thing between them.

“What is it?” he calls out, stepping out of the hotel bathroom and into the bedroom.  Then the floor falls out from underneath him as his eyes fall on the offending item on top of his bed.  His laptop, his button camera, video up and available for America to poke his nose into.  England can almost see the dream-vacation in the mountains shatter in front of his eyes.  “ _I can explain_ ,” he says quickly, his skin pale as snow.

However, America’s face is cherry red and he turns the laptop towards the Brit, showing a certain scene in the back of an Irish pub.  “ _You recorded our make out session?_ ” he stammers, growing more flustered by the minute.

...Oh.

Coughing into his fist, England feels the heat rushing up his neck as he tries to explain in as dignified a manner as possible.  “Ah, well, you see.  That is... Yes.  Yes, I did.”

The blush on America’s cheeks only gets worse.  Then he turns away to his own suitcase to finish packing up.  “Goddamned, kinky sonnuva...” he mutters under his breath before his words grow inaudible.  Relaxing, England smiles at his back and resumes his packing.  Well, alright, so America thinks he’s a dirty old man.  He can live with that.  Better than what he was _actually_ doing.

When America’s back is turned, England subtly picks up the button camera and flicks it out of the window and into obscurity.  After all, he won’t need it again.  Not when he’s suddenly found so many better ways to keep America from talking.

~o~

“Ow!”

“Hungary?” Japan turns, looking curiously over at his meeting companion.  Only to see her rubbing the top of her dark brown hair with a wince.  Hungary leans down and picks up a little button from the sidewalk in front of her.  “What is it?”

“Piece of junk,” Hungary frowns, glaring at the offending thing.  She looks up, trying to determine where on earth it came from.  Odd, it looks like a button but it’s a little bulky...

“Oh, well, please hurry.  We need to catch a taxi to the airport,” Japan frets, his attention already back on travel plans.  Hungary gives the button another look, trying to decide whether or not to just toss the thing.  After a moment, she shrugs and drops it into her purse, before dashing off to join Japan.


End file.
